


Picture

by MeansToOffend (goodmorning)



Series: Pick Me Up [22]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2017-2018 NHL Season, Columbus Blue Jackets, Hugs, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Pick-Up Lines, Previous NHL Seasons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-05
Updated: 2018-05-05
Packaged: 2019-05-02 17:23:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14549601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodmorning/pseuds/MeansToOffend
Summary: "Kolya gives the best hugs."





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Kolya gives the best hugs.

On the ice there are three kinds of these: First, when Bob didn’t know they were doing it, didn’t know it would become a thing, could only stand there and be hugged, there were Kolya’s arms around his shoulders, pressing his mask into the front of his jersey, the musk-sweat scent of him drifting through the cage. Second, when he did know, waiting with arms spread, each of them throwing left arms over, right hands still holding their sticks, turning them into a giant asterisk of excitement on top of the win. Third, when he gets excited, when they go out and succeed and he can’t wait, when he launches himself into it, Kolya is there, sturdy and wonderful, shouting muffled “Bobrovsky!” into his chest, helmet half off, Bob’s arms holding everything.

Off the ice, he can’t even begin to count the variety - short or long, one arm or two, words or none - but they all have one thing in common. They’re warm, not with the heat of their bodies but from the quiet glow of their love. Bob’s pretty sure they’d be the best hugs even without that, though, even if it was just the respect of two long-time teammates and friends between them, without any other layers. This is because Kolya’s hugs are perfect. He never holds on for too long, never clings too tight, but never, ever leaves Bob wanting more.

Love, to these hugs, is really more like the cherry on top of some dessert, a bright pop of color that ties it together but doesn’t do much to the flavor. 

Bob never eats the cherries; Kolya loves them.

Not that Bob doesn’t like or want the love, it’s just - Kolya gives the best hugs, and they deserve to be appreciated on their own merits, too. Sometimes they make him think of his first shutout, the blue and red sitting on him so familiar and strange, the deep breath of tension let out before he knew he was holding it, the relief and the spiteful pride and the sudden tiredness that comes with honesty. Sometimes they make him feel like he’s been run, like his feet are out from under him and he can’t catch his breath, can only fling his pads and his glove up and hope for a miracle save, hope he’s reading the play right. Sometimes they seem like learning a whole new language, where the words are confusing but the tone is always clear, shining through to the core of him.

Always, always, they’re the best.

\--

Seryozha comes to America with a tiny bit of English and a new mask. He really doesn’t think that’s going to be enough.

There are no Russians on the Flyers, of course. Ovechkin and Semin and Anisimov are so close but so far, and none of them are any particular friends of his, anyway. 

He throws himself into learning English and embraces the ‘weird goalie’ stereotype. Who needs friends? He has hockey.

\--

Sergei Bobrovsky comes to Ohio with more English, another new mask, and a chip on his shoulder. He’s pretty sure that’s one thing too many.

At least this time there are Russians, a part of him thinks. The other part has had enough of Russians, after the last season and the lockout. And isn’t that something, when your own language makes you feel lonelier than ever, lonelier than you make yourself?

He throws himself into conditioning, tries to keep holding himself separate. Who needs friends? Except, for some reason, he makes friends, whether he wants them, needs them, or not. 

Anisimov invites him to more meals than he can count, saying they both should learn the draws of their new city, until Sergei finally has to put his foot down. “Anisimov,” he starts.

“Artem,” Anisimov interrupts, looking at Sergei pointedly, in a way that reminds him too much of his mother.

“Fine. Artem-”

“Tema,” he interrupts again, sounding so Russian it puts Sergei’s back up. 

Except - he has to stop blaming Ilya for his own problems, and time has made him less bitter with the way things are going now, so - he takes a deep breath, and says, “Okay, you win, Tema, I will have lunch with you.”

And Tema grins, and they have lunch, and then there’s really no getting rid of him.

Foligno, on the other hand, just hugs him. This doesn’t register to Sergei at first, because there are plenty of guys who just have odd boundaries that way, who think of team as close and close as fair game to touch often, like they have to reassure themselves everyone is still there. But Foligno, while tactile, isn’t really one of these. He never seems to be reassuring himself with his shoulder pats and back slaps, but everyone else, a little “hey, what’s up?” that makes Sergei forget sometimes that he’s also new to this team, to this room, the way he fits in so naturally. It takes a while for him to notice that Foligno’s like this more often with him than with anyone else, that he quietly makes his presence known to Sergei on a fairly regular basis, until it’s almost weirder for him not to be around.

Also, he’s not shouting “Mason!” and flinging himself onto Mase every time _he_ wins.

By the time Sergei figures it out, he’s already well and truly stuck with Tema, so what’s one more friend, anyway? Besides, it should be good practice for his English, if nothing else. “Are we friends?” he asks after practice one day, shaking off his glove.

He doesn’t mean it to be accusatory at all, but maybe Fligs takes it that way, because he says, “Sorry, I just thought you looked like maybe you needed one. If you want me to stop-”

“No,” Sergei says, a little too quickly. “No, is a good thing.” 

“Then we’re friends,” Fligs says, and that’s pretty much that. Sergei has the sense that he’d be even harder to get rid of than Tema, if he wanted to.

(He really doesn’t.)

\--

Nick gets the captaincy, and he looks much more settled when Bob next sees him, like a weight has been taken off his shoulders despite the responsibility added. “Hey,” he says, grinning wide when he sees Bob. “Would you… want to go for coffee sometime?”

“Sure, I like coffee,” Bob says, but what he means is _I’d do anything with you._

It’s not until he’s at the cafe that he realizes what “coffee” really meant, that Nick had meant the same.

\--

Ottawa Senators at Philadelphia Flyers, January 20, 2011. Foligno from Fisher and Alfredsson, goal scored at 19:14 of the 2nd. 2-6 final. Bobrovsky 25/27, .926.

Philadelphia Flyers at Ottawa Senators, April 5, 2011. Foligno from Spezza and Kuba, powerplay goal scored at 15:37 of the 1st. 2-5 final. Bobrovsky 31/35, .886.

\--

Seryozha is slowly falling apart. It’s a pattern he should maybe have seen coming, but he didn’t. The playoffs were bad and then they were over, so he thought, except that now he’s still bad, and there doesn’t seem to be any end to it. Nobody has any confidence in him, least of all Seryozha himself, and that’s probably the worst thing about it, the way he feels both replaced and replaceable.

He almost wants to lean on Ilya, but he can’t. For one thing, Ilya is the one replacing him, and though they’re teammates and countrymen, Seryozha can’t help but feel resentful, that the team he was on the verge of leading somewhere has been taken from him.

Maybe his isolation is self-imposed, but he’s really feeling it now, and maybe he really would try to lean on Ilya, but the other thing is that he’s just as lost; Seryozha can tell by the way he holds himself, shoulders down, bent in on himself so subtly it’s almost impossible to tell, except that he looks smaller than anyone his size should ever be able to, and his eyes have the look of a small animal when the wolves are out, the constant relentless dread of the hunted. Also - and this is something Seryozha never expected to say about anyone - Ilya is actually the weirdest goalie, and in some ways it’s rubbing off on him, whether he wants it to or not.

It’s fine when he rambles about the universe, or what dogs would look like if they were people, but when he speaks Russian to annoy the rest of the team, when he uses Seryozha to do so, it’s too much. It’s impolite, and he certainly doesn’t want to be dragged into sharing the rudeness, but Ilya will drag him anyway, gleefully and obliviously, more worried about his own jokes than about anyone else’s well-being. More than once, it makes Seryozha wonder if the team hates them, hates him for not being able to stop it.

It makes him hate himself, a little.

\--

Bob has a bad season in 2015, but how can he get his feet under him with Korpi nipping at his heels? And, worse, with fewer starts and fewer wins, there are fewer hugs.

Except - Kolya makes up the difference off the ice, and Bob can only cling tight to him, the only thing going well in his life, and hope that everything will be alright.

\--

Bob has been in love before.

He’s felt the wildfire rush of requitement, the tingle of lips on skin with no immediate goal in mind, the quiet happiness of just being together. He knows the tugging ache of loneliness that comes with being parted, the rush of contentment that comes with reuniting, the feeling of home in a person rather than a place, more permanent and fleeting, precarious and certain. He feels all of these things for his Kolya, with a depth and ferocity he’d thought was reserved for teenage romances and sappy movies. Thinking about their relationship takes his breath away. 

Eight years ago, he never would have thought he could be this happy, find happiness in another. Six years ago, he never would have thought it would be _this_ man that he would love so much it aches. Three years ago, he had no idea Kolya would love him just as much.

Now, Bob can’t imagine life without Kolya, on or off the ice, can’t imagine a bad loss without his soothing words or not being a source of strength to Kolya in return, doesn’t want to try to imagine not waking up next to him every morning, to his quiet smile, softened by sleep. For some people, maybe this would be too much time together, home and work, but they have lives outside of each other, too, and they make sure to take time out if they need it.

For all these reasons, this is the best relationship Bob has ever had, so he has some suspicion about just what it is that the team photographer hands to Kolya after their last regular-season home game. When Kolya goes down on one knee in the room, before anyone has had a chance to shower or change, it’s kind of gross but mostly perfect, the way the team goes quiet until Cam tries to wolf-whistle at them and fails, and everyone laughs, and Kolya, perfect Kolya, almost falls over with it.

He rights himself, though, looking up at Bob. “Seryozha, we’ve been together for a while now, and we’ve talked about making it official, so I thought, why not now? I love you, you know, and I may not be a photographer but I can picture us together for a long time. So, marry me?”

“Oh, Kolyusha,” Bob says, and he wishes he could get down on the floor with him, but his pads are in the way. “You know you didn’t even have to ask.” And he pulls Kolya into the stall next to him, hugging him as tight as he can as the room erupts into cheers.

**Author's Note:**

> \- God, they hug so much and I cannot deal with it.  
> \- Pretty sure "Bob never eats the cherries; Kolya loves them" is the most heart-eyes sentence I have ever written in my life.  
> \- The importance of what people call themselves and each other is kind of A Thing for me but at least I managed to have a good reason for it this time.


End file.
